


Maybe Superheroes Don't Have Souls

by I_was_here_once



Series: Under the Present Brutal and Primitive Conditions [1]
Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon is a sandbox, Compound V erases soulmarks, Death, Drug Mentions, European vs. American Soulmark Culture, F/F, F/M, Family Issues, Funerals, He is trying his best, Healthy Relationships, M/M, Multi, One sided soulmates, Polyamorous Relationships, Pregnancy, Somebody please help M.M., Substance Abuse, Tattoos, Unhealthy Relationships, Unwanted medical procedures, Violence people, domestic abuse, injuries, mentions of divorce, mentions of drug use, please mind the warnings, separated families, severe physical injury, unreliable narrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 08:02:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26848597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_was_here_once/pseuds/I_was_here_once
Summary: The rest of us do
Relationships: Becca Butcher/Billy Butcher, Billy Butcher/Hughie Campbell, Billy Butcher/OCs, Billy Butcher/OFCs, Billy Butcher/OMCs, Billy Butcher/Starlight | Annie January, Cherie/The Frenchman (The Boys), Cherie/The Frenchman/Jay (The Boys), Frenchie/Jay, Hughie Campbell/Robin Ward, Monique/Mother's Milk (The Boys), Mother's Milk & Billy Butcher, Mother's Milk & The Frenchman, Robin Ward/Original Characters, The Female | Kimiko Miyashiro & Kenji Miyashiro, The Female | Kimiko Miyashiro/The Frenchman
Series: Under the Present Brutal and Primitive Conditions [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1972030
Comments: 25
Kudos: 79





	1. Billy Butcher

Billy, when he was born, was covered in marks. By the time he is thirty-five, he is down to four. When he turns forty-two, he has three left. He is one of the few people who can _feel_ the writing on their skin, and he remembers what he was doing when, one by one, the marks disappeared.

Some of the marks feel nice until they disappear. Like warm sunlight tracing letters on his skin. Those were the first to disappear. _I believe in you,_ disappeared when he was seven. He wasn’t quite sure what he did for that one to disappear. He had been hiding with Lenny behind the apartment building eating ice cream at the time. The sun was high in the sky, their mother was at work, and his father was sleeping off a late night. The words had been written on his stomach in big block letters. The words were still grey, Billy hadn’t heard his soulmate say them yet. But he would trace the words and it would felt warm and soft and _good._ Billy threw up his ice cream and didn’t mention it to anyone.

 _Motherfucker_ had been written on his spine in spiky blue letters. Billy had a general idea of who could have said it, but he was two bad decisions away from a dishonorable discharge at the time. The word, which was warm for many years, slowly faded to cool. Eventually, Billy could have sworn his fingers went numb when he touched the letters, the words were so cold. He was in a firefight when they disappeared.. Billy shut himself in a room and drank himself to sleep the moment he got back to base. When he woke up, he put away the liquor and went to the shooting range, where he practiced until his shoulders ached and his fingers were frozen. He still got phantom aches in his spine, a pertinent reminder.

_No_ appeared once when he was in his twenties, clean shaven at Lenny’s funeral. It raced like electricity around his ankle, making his teeth ache and his fingers twitch. He was able to sneak a quick glance at it in the loo, handwriting delicate and bold. He told no one and helped his mother wash the dishes. He stayed around the house for a couple days, but left when the _No_ erased itself. He wondered what he had done to have lost a soulmate in less than a week. He paid his mother’s rent for the next several months and then decided to go visit the States.

_Coward, Fool, Can you pass me that,_ and _Hand over your wallet_ disappeared before turning color. Each of them was ripped from his skin after each murder. He could feel the phantom ache over his knuckles and under his chin. It felt as if a stone had worn away his skin where they were. They had never had any warmth, but they had prickled at his skin, a reminder that they existed.

Until they didn’t. Eventually, Butcher could pretend he forgot where they were and what they said.

Becca’s words had soothed him. They had no hear, but he could run his fingers over his wrists and feel at rest. When he met her, brown hair and a smile that lit up a room, the words turned blue, deep and calming. They stayed that way for years, until January of 2012, when they started fading. Billy watched the circles grow under her eyes and would trace his words on her palm, but nothing he did helped. The words felt like a crack of a whip on his wrist and no matter what he did, he could not stop the pain. It was a month after Becca disappeared that the words came back in a strong solid gold, aching with need.

 _What am I willing to put up with today?_ The words are spoken by an apprentice electrician, hauling around a box that says “Wires and Fires, We Fix Them All”. They are standing in front of a conglomerate of firetrucks and police sirens. Billy is covered in sewage and is two seconds away from throwing up, Rachel had only been gone for a year. He just gave her a flash of teeth and walked away. The words pulsed unevenly around his shoulder, paining him as he took step after step away from her.

The last words, _You interested in a nanny cam?_ had appeared at the worst part of his training. They circled his neck like a collar and seemed to be the most inoffensive of the lot, despite the strangeness of the question. When Becca had first seen the words, she had laughed. Later, she had told Billy that he needed to get two extra bedrooms if they ever have kids, because she had no doubt he would take this one home. Her nail had traced the letters and Billy remembered hoping, for a moment, for a kid. It was never hot or cold, until one day Billy felt it go cold. A few days later, Billy heard the question and nearly laughed. Eight years after Becca, and seven years after the electrician. Billy felt the necklace of words burn and he knew that the words were red.


	2. Becca

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Judy explains, but Becca doesn't understand until later.

The fifth time Becca woke up in the middle of the night to see Billy tracing her soulmarks, Becca went to Judy. She was given a strong drink and told to sit down.

It was under extreme duress that Billy introduced Becca to his Aunt Judy, in the first place. Becca had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting Billy’s dad early in the relationship. Billy’s mum exchanged emails with her regularly. (Billy had met Rachel on their first date, and attended Thanksgiving with her the day after. Becca learned two very important things from this. One, establish clear boundaries with family. Two, Billy fights dirty. The fact Billy was allowed back was a fucking miracle. Mind you, she had two uncles she was never going to see again, but that was probably a good thing.)

Judy had been brought up in conversation with Billy’s mum, who was surprised Becca didn’t know Judy. The next day, Becca got to see Billy harassed by his mother over the phone. The next day, Billy asked her if she would like to go on a trip. Becca grabbed a sweater, took off work and jumped into his very well loved car. Aunt Judy was small and tough and entirely too honest in a way Billy must have appreciated. Becca spent the entire visit with the nagging feeling that Aunt Judy was probably the final gauntlet in whatever was between her and Billy. Billy stood next to a wall during the entire visit, shoulder’s tense and grin forced. After the visit, however, Judy patted her cheek and told her to keep Billy in line.

Judy, when Becca asked her about Billy and soulmarks, had given her a strong drink and had gotten herself a joint. Becca had jumped into Billy’s arms the first time he had said her words, but he had never actually talked about the marks. She knew her marks were on his wrist, wrapping around it in a deep blue. His mark on her palm was indented into her skin, which was unusual. Most marks were smooth, color the only characteristic. All of Becca’s were textured. They were bumps and groves on the skin, so she could feel them in the dark with a brush of her fingertips.

“The problem for us common folk,” Judy told her, “is that we think soulmarks are pieces of a soul. It’s a fucking lie of course. We got plenty of people who marry and have kids and live good lives without meeting a single soulmate. But it sticks in the back of your head, yeah? When one of those marks disappears, you suddenly wonder what you did to ruin such an important connection. Its like losing part of yourself. Logic doesn’t factor into it, its so deeply unsettling. I’ve lost three myself. I was sitting on the toilet when one disappeared. I wasn’t doing anything, but I would still wake up and wonder what happened, what I had done. Billy pretends he doesn’t care about them, but he gets harder and harder with every loss. “

Becca opened her mouth to interrupt. She had a Masters in Rhetoric and a minor is Sociology. Those without soulmarks had been considered special, even _holy._ There were scholarships for people born without the marks. Soulmarks were considered common and lower class. Soulmarks were _romantic,_ of course, but they could lead to all sorts of relationships that were _intolerable_. (Becca didn’t particularly care. She and Billy had talked about any other soulmates early on. Billy wasn’t against bringing them in, and Becca was already designing a house for all four of them in her head.) The only ones, according to most religious leaders, who headed soulmarks were the morally corrupted. Surely having _fewer_ soulmates was considered a blessing. But then she caught herself, imagining if even _one_ of her marks disappeared.

“I think Billy can feel them, too.” Judy said to herself, softly. “He would always touch them like they brought him comfort.”

Becca hummed, because she thought the same thing. He would sometimes wake up from nightmares groping at his spine or patting his stomach. He would pant and his muscles would clench and Becca would hear his teeth grind in the night.

Becca traced his words on her palm and thought to herself _I will never leave him._

_\---_

She was washing dishes, trying to ignore Billy talking to Rachel in the background. It was two weeks after the incident and Becca was barely holding on. Billy was staying calm by the skin of his teeth and only because Becca knew she looked fragile. The first time she flinched when he touched her from behind, she watched as he inwardly collapsed in on himself, protecting the soft inner corners of his soul. They slept in the same bed and Billy would curl around her and kiss her palm every night, but Becca could not seem to lean towards him. Any relief she would get in telling him would immediately be replaced by having to calm him. She didn’t have the strength to stop him, now.

She was scrubbing the dishes when she noticed her wrist, the one that said _Oh, you’re mine, too!_ The grey writing was one of two that matched Billy’s marks. The grey started fading. She felt her heart stop as she turned over her other hand to look at Billy’s mark.

It was fading.

It was fading.

Oh god.

She didn’t know what happened next, except that she was sitting on the floor with Billy’s arms wrapped around her. Her head was pressed between her knees and Billy was begging her to _breathe, just breathe._

When she came back to herself she started clawing at Billy’s wrist, searching for her own words. Billy didn’t move, but allowed her to take his arm and look.

The words were a little faded, but they weren’t gone, still in blue across his skin. She held up her palm next to the words and whimpered for a moment. Butcher’s writing on her palm was fading, no longer the deep blue it generally was, but a lighter color.

“Becca,” Butcher said. “Its okay.” He pulled her to his chest. He was sprawled on the kitchen floor. Water had splashed down and made dark patches on his jeans and shirt. “This doesn’t mean anything, yeah?” His voice was calm and steady and she would have believed him if she hadn’t felt the tremors racing up and down his arms.

“This doesn’t mean a thing.” Butcher said. He grabbed hand and turned it over, maneuvering her hand so she was focused on the gold band that had so intrigued Homelander.

“This means something.” Billy said. “You’re my girl. This is what matters okay. I said you were mine, you said I was yours. We don’t need the marks, okay?”

Becca nodded. She looked in his eyes for a moment and almost told him.

\---

She felt numb when she knew. Her marks had disappeared, but her stomach was now rounded in a way it hadn’t been before. She hadn’t been able to stop Billy from finding out about the soulmarks. She had huddled under the blankets of the bed and let Billy hold her through it as she sobbed.

The lasers were nothing compared to that.

Becca felt, in piece of her, every inch of skin that was now smooth, that dying was a viable possibility. She shied away from the thought it would be preferable. She couldn’t do that to Billy. Perhaps it was selfish, but forcing Billy to have another suicidal relative to hang on his shoulders was too horrifying to think about. She would rather claw out her own eyes.

There was a chance she might end up dead anyway, but she couldn’t leave Billy with nothing. Mark or not, ring or not, she was _his._ Becca would burn the world before she destroyed him.

Or let him destroy himself.

So fuck Homelander. Becca went to Vought and signed an NDA and nearly bled out in a delivery room and did not say goodbye to Billy. When Becca woke up, she felt different. Odd, as if every part of her was broken.

When she was able to hold her son the first time, she burst into tears. (She had always been an ugly crier, but the amount of water and snot that came out of her was ridiculous)

Partly, because her it was _her son._

Partly, because when she looked at her hands for the first time, she was able to see Butcher’s words back on her skin, engraved in gold. She knew without looking that her wrist and ankle that her other marks were back as well.

Becca felt a sort of peace wash over her as the doctors spoke about the baby and the different things that needed to be done before she was set up in a new home. Becca listened and nodded and would have given anything to have Billy with her right then. Then one of the doctors lifted up the her son and showed her something she never expected to see.

A little grey line on his ankle, with words to small to read.

“This is the first time we have a verified Supe with a soulmark.”

_Her son had a soul. Thank God._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled with this one. On one hand, I have so many feelings about Becca as a rounded person, that I wanted to include all of that. I wanted to include her relationship with Rachel (who doesn't have soulmarks) and her mom and her complicated feelings about religon and how she got her job and all the ways it fit together to make her make certain decisions. That is another fic though, and I needed to stay on topic.  
> *sigh*  
> I do about two drafts of these before I post them, and rearrange things and such. I probably should have edited this one more, but I knew I would probably have never posted it if I tried to make it perfect.  
> As a note on the writing styles, I am trying to stay inconsistent on purpose. Each of these people have different reactions to the world around them and different ways of thinking. Becca is a bit more roundabout, but she and Billy have a similar brand of possessiveness. Even if they didn't share a soul mark in this world, they still would have gotten together. I am trying to decide between Mallory and M.M. for the next one. Hughie is already in the drafts, but will probably be posted last or next to last.


	3. Grace Mallory

Failure, to Grace Mallory at fifteen, was a shut door. When she was younger, waiting outside the principal’s office, she would play with loose strings on her uniform cuffs. She would fidget and adjust her collar. She would smooth out wrinkles and tap her shoes on the hardwood floor. The door was made of wood, worn and pressed and polished. She was always outside the door, listening and straining for some sort of sound.

Failure, to Lt. Grace Mallory at twenty, was a closed tent. The noise was a low undercurrent, but it still rubbed against her nerves. She wished she was allowed to fidget like she had at fifteen. There was sweat making her uniform cling to her. The air was still and heavy, making it hard to breathe. ` She followed her commanding officer around the tent as he asked for their names, the names of their next of kin, and any final wishes. She would jot down the information on her clipboard and go back to the command tent. Hours after dark, she would go to her tent and would lay down. She learned to sleep on her back, so she didn’t have to face the closed flaps of the tent.

Failure, to Agent Grace Mallory at thirty-five, was the Judge’s Chambers. The rooms filled with law books, but dominated by a written check, signed by Vought, on the desk in front of the victim. Her teeth ached and her feet hurt in her heels, but she had learned not to fidget years before in much harsher conditions than an air conditioned room. She didn’t have to look at the dead and dying in the Judge’s Chambers, she just had to _feel them,_ as they looked over her shoulders and demanded to know how much money their lives were worth.

Failure, to Agent Grace Mallory at forty-five, was holding her child’s soulmate in her arms as they soaked her suit with their tears. It was sitting in a rocking chair holding a three-year-old and glancing at twin bassinets in the corner, trying to read _The Monster at the End of this Book._ The TV had been running in the background, constant coverage of the latest bank robbery, where two Supes were able to save half of the hostages. The pictures are edited so the eyes of the heroes are not bloodshot and their pupils are not pinpricks.

Failure, to Deputy Director Grace Mallory at age fifty-three, is an open door. There are too many to count, too many sensations to take in. Her voice remains calm. She doesn’t fidget, she doesn’t stumble over her words. She offers condolences and she offers hope- she sells the cause to each of them. Each offer accepted is the reminder of another failure, but it is also a bit of hope. Grace Mallory, at the age of fifty-three, hopes that every open door she goes through is a countdown to her never having to offer her condolences again. Every failure fuels her rage and her success.

Failure develops a taste to Deputy Director Grace Mallory at age fifty-six. It tastes like _ash._ It clogs her throat and chokes her. It is a strong dose of Lidocaine to her entire body. Her daughter and her three soulmates scream and beg and cry. Grace Mallory feels nothing. There is nothing but ash and numbness.

Failure ends up feeling like a relief when retiree Grace Mallory picks up and drops a hundred different hobbies. She has an overly clean house and it is a mile to the nearest grocery. None of her children speak to her. She has a restraining order against her by half of their soulmates. Her doctor tells her she has many more years in front of her.  
  


But, if you were to ask Grace Mallory what failure looked like, she would know the answer. It was the reason for her scholarship. It was the cause for her enlistment. It was her asset in the army and the C.I.A. It was the failsafe in her security clearance. It was an excuse on her divorce papers and the rift between her and her children.

Failure, for Grace Mallory- ever since she had known what a soulmate could be, looked like a body with blank, uniform, skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are stigmas, for and against soulmates in this story. I want to be clear, however, that this is not Mallory basing her successes and failures on romantic love. Soulmates can be platonic as well as romantic. Mallory earned every bit of her success through her own work annd some of the opportunities she gained were through her lack of soulmarks. To her, soulmarks represent connection to humanity. It makes her feel disconnected from people as a whole, not having that one experience most other people have. While I wouldn't say this is an unreliable narration, it has a very narrow view of Mallory as a whole. This is meant to show one aspect of her life and how it affects the rest.


	4. M.M.

Monique was not his soulmate, and M.M. was good with that. Monique was a classy lady, straightforward and down to have fun and _blessedly sane._

His actual soulmates were crazy motherfuckers and M.M. had no _idea_ how to deal with them.

His mother and father had three soulmates between them, and his mom didn’t have his dad’s words written on her. He would sometimes trace the faded orange and yellow of his father’s words, etched into his hands. His never met his father’s older soulmate, but he saw his picture on his parent’s side table. The man was tall and smiling and had his arm wrapped around his father like he was supporting him. Marvin could tell that the picture had been a surprise, but it was a beautiful picture anyway.

He had met his mother’s soulmate. She lived just down the street. His mom never forced him to join her, but she would go down to her soulmate’s apartment every Sunday night and cook dinner for her. Jean was twelve years older than his mother and rode a wheelchair. She could and would show him the different tricks she could do in it. Half of the visit would be her standing behind his mom telling her that she wasn’t cooking correctly at _all_ and she needed to move over and let Jean take over. His mother would refuse and threaten to beat Jean if she came near her potatoes again. Marvin remembered the lift of the wooden spoon and the way Jean would just _smile_ at his mom, like everything was right with the world. His father never came on those visits, but he would pick up groceries and deliver them on Saturdays. Marvin was never invited to those deliveries.

As a little kid, it was just the way things were. He could count on one hand the number of married soulmates on his block, and still have fingers left over. Unlike where he grew up, where soulmates existed, but were not talked about, soulmates were openly claiming each other in the Marines. There was a reverence in the way soldiers would talk about their soulmates that could strike M.M. to the heart. There was also an assumed and claimed responsibility. Even the brass expected you to look after your soulmate. M.M. had to get used to being watched quickly, because a Marine looking over your shoulder as you patched up his soulmate was not easily ignored. All of it was so bold and unapologetic that M.M. understood what his parents had been saying silently his whole life.

_You don’t **marry** your soulmate; you look after them. _

He would always be somewhat grateful he met Monique before the crazy motherfuckers who wrote words like, _Move out of the way, cunt_ and _It is a fucking masterpiece, non?_ On his forearms, which meant he wore long sleeves to any event where there were children.

Or church.

The first time he met _Move out of the way, cunt_ he apologized silently to all those traveling preachers who tried to warn him growing up. _It is a fucking masterpiece, non?_ Made him not only apologize, but promise to volunteer at the “True Love Waits” event at the church. A bomb was not a fucking masterpiece.

It had almost been a relief that Butcher didn’t have M.M.’s words anywhere on him, not that he brought up the fact Butcher’s words were in a dark orange on his forearm. It was not a relief to be tackled by a Frenchman with a machine gun when he asked the question, _Did you ever have any common sense, or were you born this stupid?_

Both men were geniuses in their own way. Butcher could manipulate any situation and pull solutions out of his ass like it was no one’s business. Frenchie could build anything, and they had a shared understanding of pharmaceuticals. When M.M. had finally shown Butcher his words, four months after meeting him, the man actually looked _sorry,_ which was a kick in the gut. He showed him Becca’s and the other two he had, as if doing penance.

“Haven’t met this one yet, but this one is an electrician up in Queens. She’s currently engaged, I haven’t spoken to her.” Butcher said, fondly, or as fondly as he was able. “I don’t even know what I would do with her.”

M.M. felt tired looking at Butcher’s marks. It was cruel that sometimes the intensity of a soulmark increased after death, but it went a long way into explaining why the fuck Butcher was a sick son of a bitch. Becca’s words were a bold gold on his skin.

Frenchie, or Serge, had showed him his marks the moment he had finished sticking his tongue in M.M.’s mouth. M.M. was very grateful he could keep up with rapidly spoken French. Sergie had scoffed when M.M. said he was monogamous.

“Oh, denying your _soul?_ That is something that turns out well for everyone, hm?” His shoulders had hunched slightly and M.M. felt deeply uncomfortable.

“Oi!” Butcher had butted in at that. “It’s a lot more common in the states than you think.” His coat flapped a bit in the wind. They were on top of a very tall skyscraper, with a bomb, and chatting. M.M. had been hoping Butcher would put a pin in it like he normally did, but no.

”Oh, Oui, I forgot.” Frenchie sneered. “The Devil’s temptation, no? Is it because I am a man, or because I have more than one soulmark?”

M.M. huffed and rolled up his other sleeve, showing Frenchie Butcher’s words.

“Look, I don’t give a damn about how many or what gender,” M.M. had said, pushing through the awkwardness. “I just think, romantically, its better if something is built than just assumed, equal commitment and goals between two people.”

Frenchie still looked suspicious, but he had let it go.

Butcher hadn’t said anything, but he had rubbed Becca’s words on his wrist.

M.M. had huffed, but let it be. He wasn’t denying his soul.

He wasn’t.

He was working with these two because they shared a similar goal.

At least, that’s what he told himself when he patched up Butcher, who always came out of jobs looking like he had been put in a blender. Those were the nights he went home and washed his hands for hours, because if he just scrubbed enough, he could get his soulmate’s blood of his hands. Monique was comforting in those days, holding him as he shook in silence. Frenchie was an entirely different problem. M.M. had days where he was giving Frenchie activated charcoal to purge his stomach and days where he was dragging Frenchie out of clubs and pulling him off his work table. M.M. wasn’t quite sure why he and Frenchie shared marks. Frenchie’s messes and principles and general jumpiness drove him _insane_ with worry. M.M. was sure, that one day, he would come in to their headquarters and see Frenchie slumped over a bomb or some wires like his father had slumped over that typewriter.

In the end it was so much worse. It ended with him in the hospital, Monique clutching his hand. Frenchie responsible for the death of _children._ Butcher, uncaring, trying to push M.M. into another job. Monique had read him the riot act out in the hospital hallway. They screamed at each other in the hospital hallway, waking patients and disturbing family members. Butcher had left in the end.

Butcher always left in the end. M.M. had thought.

Monique spent the night holding his hand. They talked in low voices and M.M. had let the feelings he had been avoiding wash over him.

_His soulmates were **bad** for him. _

He shied away from the thought at first. Soulmates _couldn’t_ be bad for you. But then again, if they weren’t his soulmates, would he have but up with Butcher’s lies and self-destruction? Would he have put up with Frenchie’s thoughtlessness and arrogance? M.M. was honest enough with himself that he knew that those two would not have needed to be his soulmates for him to be fighting the good fight.

Butcher and Frenchie being his soulmates just made it so much worse.

The day he was released, he got home, washed his hands, cleaned the house and then called Butcher and Frenchie. Monique didn’t say a word, just sat by him on the couch. A new ring was on her finger.

M.M. cut the strings and quit. Frenchie had been subdued, but Butcher had argued with him, he had gotten him mad. They yelled horrible things at each other.

M.M. sobbed in Monique’s arms that night. Monique, who never liked Butcher and was unsure about Frenchie, seemed a bit taken aback by his choice.

“They are your _soulmates,”_ Monique had said, tracing the words on his forearms. Marvin had leaned his forehead against hers and had asked,

“What do we even have in common?”

Monique couldn’t answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frenchie is next. I should mention that there will be original characters thrown in here. A big part of this universe is that soulmates can have absolutely no common ground, (or not obvious common ground, in M.M.'s case), but suddenly they become apart of your life. Incase anyone is wondering about the order to this fic, its  
> Frenchie  
> Kimiko  
> Robin  
> Hughie  
> I hope to do a re-write of the series after this fic, but I have no idea if I will be able to. Any thoughts?


	5. Frenchie

Serge’s parents were not soulbound. They were _soulmarked,_ but their souls were not bound to each others. Serge is content to think this is the reason for the problems of the world. Soulmarks do not make a relationship. No, you must be bound to your soulmate. How else are you to function? How else are you to live?

So, how do you _bind_ yourself to your soulmates if you are restrained? How do you go through life if you can not share every part of yourself with your own _soul._

It is reprehensible. Serge would rather be stabbed, _killed,_ rather than deny his own soul. He has many marks, and he will love _all of them_ until the day death took him.

His favorite, though he would ask for pardon from the other two, was the one that curled behind his ear. The writing was neatly printed, not romantic in the least bit, and it said,

_Did you ever have any common sense, or were you born this stupid?_

Frenchie, who was realistic about his romantic tendencies, had found the words oddly fitting. The no nonsense of the words echoed in his ear, right where he could hear them whispering. Sometimes, when he is most likely about to do something foolish, he likes to _caress_ the words, and apologize.

Cherie’s words were also beautiful. They were written in French, and curled around his thigh, which was providence, due to the fact that was where she stabbed him when they first met. They were good friends, and she offered good sense and better connections. He spends money from the first deal he has getting a tattoo of a rose wrapping around the words. She was fresh rain to him, welcoming and quenching.

Jay’s words are written on his calf, in dark and bold letters. They are stark, standing out and it takes very little to convince Frenchie to wear shorts. He gets a tattoo of a blue jay standing over the words. Jay was the song of his life, ready and able to bring him joy.

When he meets M.M. he is nearly ecstatic for all of five seconds, before he is disappointed. M.M. is _restrained,_ as if giving himself to Frenchie would make him _dirty_ in some way. It is not about sex, it is about _love._ How would you contain such a thing? M.M. speaks of relationships as if a person can only have one.

Bah.

Frenchie does his best in any case. He is free with M.M., just as he is with his other soulmates. He speaks to him about whatever is on his mind, holding nothing back. He asks him about Monique and what she is like. He celebrates when M.M. is going to propose. Slowly, ever so slowly, M.M. begins to open up as well. In fact, Frenchie realizes, M.M. has been open all along. Frenchie was usually the one who dragged his soulmates out of trouble, but it was M.M. who dragged _him_ out of trouble. He knew what to do in order to help Frenchie when he experimented a bit _too_ hard. Jay was usually too wasted to pull Frenchie out of his own vomit and Cherie would just leave. Frenchie found he _liked_ how M.M. loved and started trying to do the same. 

It was only fair Frenchie attempt to show love the way his soulmate needed. He brought M.M. ice cream and fixed his weapons. He found him good drugs to use on missions. He gave advice on romantic poetry and the best way to go down on a woman. M.M. took these gifts with varying acceptance.

It was only when Jay was about to die that everything fell apart. He left for thirty minutes to save _his soulmate._ The entire time, all that was running through his head was how disappointed M.M. would be if he abandoned the plan. Once he was sure Jay would live, he ran until his lungs burned to get back to watching Lamplighter. It was too late. Children had died and Frenchie realized _soulmates_ were not a good enough excuse for everything. Not when M.M. was in the hospital, littered in burns. When he was kicked out of the hospital by Monique, he nearly got on his knees for Butcher to get updates. He spent weeks worrying about M.M., horrified with what he had done.

Jay refused to see him at the same time. Cherie described Frenchie’s behavior as _callous._ She kept him informed of Jay’s slow descent into drugs that was deeper than he could swim. In the end, Frenchie watched as the Blue Jay tattooed on his leg went from watching over his soulmark, to standing on its own. In his effort to be better soulmate to M.M., he had lost Jay. Cherie called a few days later to tell him Jay had passed in the night.

The day after that, M.M. cut off all ties. He refused to see Frenchie, and Frenchie, to his shame, could not fight it. After Monique had threatened him with a knife, and Frenchie saw genuine fear in her eyes, Frenchie went to get drunk. He did not look behind his ear. Surely, after such a failure, he could not still have M.M.’s words on his skin, whispering to him.

Frenchie needed to get high.

He does not remember much from that time, only that Cherie forgave him in the end. She smashed a bottle over his head and dragged him home, his memory filled with the disjointed memory of a yellow cab and the smell of her hair. She then locked him in a closet till he sobered up.

He awoke laying in her lap, her fingers tracing the greyish birthmark on his forehead. Jay had said it looked like a bird, but Cherie had claimed that it looked like hands. All of his soulmates liked it. M.M. had examined it, thinking it was a bruise, until Frenchie had assured him otherwise.

“Is it still there, mon ami?” Frenchie had asked, to cowardly to pretend anymore. Cherie, who had known what he was asking without explanation, had turned his head and looked behind his ear. She then patted his cheek.

“His words are still there.” She sniffed. “You will not scare me like that again, yes? You need to go shower.”

“Yes.” Frenchie had sighed. Perhaps all was not lost. He went to look himself over in the mirror. There was not a good place to get tattooed on the head, and Frenchie did not wish to cover the next tattoo up. He turned slightly, looking at himself.

A sun, perhaps? Large and bright and caring? Perhaps on his back, over his neck? The heart would be _too_ much. Cherie came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. She stared at him in the mirror for a moment, before she took her hand and patted the hollow of his throat.

“There.” She said. And Frenchie thought that was indeed the best place.

M.M.’s soul had not departed his quite yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That birthmark is Kimiko's mark, btw. Its my thought some cultures get tattoos to show their commitment to a relationship on top of the soulmark. It is their way of saying they would keep the relationship if the soulmate disappeared.


	6. Kimiko

She learned the Latin alphabet to read six letters. _N-o-n n-o-n,_ She has had to learn many languages and customs over the years. Even if she cannot speak, she must understand. She and Kenji had tried to guess which language it was. The people who took them taught them English, but Kimiko wasn’t quite sure that two prefix’s make sense. Italian? French? It basically means no, however. Kimiko wonders what her soulmate is denying. She might be one of the souls who loves alone. Kimiko is not _quite_ sure how she feels about that, but it doesn’t really matter.

A soulmate will come second to the loyalty she owes her family. She has lost her mother and her father, but she still has Kenji, even if Kenji is slowly forgetting they were kidnapped. She signs to him to remind him of the way their parents used to talk and the stories they used to tell, but Kenji does not speak of them aloud. Perhaps this is why he is trusted.

She is still watched, ten years living in the army. Eyes watch her and hands pull her back if she wanders to far. Kenji is allowed to wander. Their captors are sure that Kenji will always come back. What does Kenji have, beside her? Nothing. But Kimiko has words, words of the West even. The words mean she will always leave. Kimiko signs to her brother that she will stay. Kenji nods like he understands, but his eyes are sad. He talks about her words like they are the words of the dead.

She is the traitor before she has betrayed. She accepts this, even as she hates the fact she was never able to sink into denial. She will never have the loyalty of the army, nor the illusion of it. Kenji may have her loyalty, but he does not own her thoughts. She would not trust him to own her thoughts. She has scrapped up food and divided it many times. She has counted grains of rice and traded nail polish, smuggled in by her brother, for fish- all while she watched the people in charge feast a few feet away from their soldiers.

Kenji believes this means they should _become_ the leaders, but Kimiko never could. Kimiko has words curling around her collarbone. Maybe Kenji could; he has no words. He goes and comes back with sweet smelling shampoo and shiny nail polish and good shoes. He does not bring back food after the first time.

Sometimes they will both go into a city. The cars and the sounds and the music are heaven to Kimiko. They will be put in little apartments and given orders- but the places to sleep are _soft,_ in a way the camps never are. Kimiko follows the orders, so she and Kenji can eat. They will have someone in charge of them. Someone with a straight back and a black gun and a cell phone in hand. This someone will control the food and the television and the nail polish. Kimiko will give up food to walk in the cities before they find her again. The will throw away her nail polish, tear her new clothes and toss her drinks in her face. They will hold a knife next to her words.

Kimiko hates the cell phone. The cell phone means she can never relax, never become comfortable. She has heard the tinny tinkling sound right before she has been pulled out of the shower, woken from sleep, in the middle of a season finale (and one time in the middle of a manicure, though she had probably was going to be pulled out of that anyway). She hates the sound of the cell phones. She hates the sound of guns. She hates the silence and the rice and the same fish and the never ending _hunger._

But Kenji is her brother.

She starts tracing the letters on her collarbone, feeling the way the grey letters curved and curled around the bone. She falls in love with the curls and edges and wonders about the voice that would say the words. She has hope the words will never fade. Perhaps it is her imagination, but the grey of the words grows deeper and deeper as the years go on. Kenji, one day, actually brings her a nail polish that matches the letters and she spends hours painting her nails until the bottle is smashed by a person in a suit with a cell phone.

Then Kenji is taken. He is pulled out of camp. He does not require much convincing. He is so eager to prove himself. He leaves Kimiko in the camp, but she can see the way his head keeps tilting as if to speak to her.

Kenji does not come back.

Kimiko hates cell phones.

One day she is pulled out of a camp. The leaders have watched her for many many days. She has been waiting for them to decide. She is very hungry and very tired. She does not fight as a man grips her face and exposes her teeth. She doesn’t fight as they put her into a boat and send her somewhere else. She does not fight as she is pulled from boat to car to building in the middle of the night.

She doesn’t fight when she is strapped down to a chair and an IV is set up. There is blue liquid sitting in a bag. It pulls no emotion from her, Kenji is gone and Kimiko is lost.

She doesn’t start to fight until the words start to _burn._

It feels like the words are dissolving, like sugar in water. She sees the words, in her mind’s eye, break into small little pieces and disappear into her skin.

So she fights.

No restraint holds her. Metal snaps like string No wound stops her. She sees herself in the mirror and nearly collapses. She was not imagining things. Her words are gone.

She is left with no words.

Her hands tremble, but they still claw the nurses eyes out. The man in the lab coat loses an arm. Her hair is sticky with blood, her feet slip in gore. She slips off her shoes. She makes her way to the basement. There are men with guns.

They shoot her.

She dies.

She lives.

She kills them.

The cycle continues.

They shoot her.

She dies.

She lives.

She kills them.

She does not need words.

She still misses them.

_Non Non._


	7. Robin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is the name of the electrician btw.

Robin knew what she wanted. She wanted to live her life the way _she_ wanted.

And that meant she was going to have as many soulmates as she pleased.

(Robin spent exactly ten minutes in the Church’s nursery before she was permanently and perpetually thrown out of religion all together. It was a matter of pride to her. She was, at the age of eight months, pronounced a slut. The caregiver left the nursery of twelve children with an eleven year old, walked up to the pastor (who was beginning his sermon), to hold her up in front of the church and declare her an unholy demon.

A cousin of hers claimed she made people faint.)

Robin had fifteen soulmates. She was going to be a good soulmate to _all of them._

(Robin didn’t tell Mark’s kids that he cried on her shoulder when she was fifteen. His divorce had been finalized and his wife had cut off contact between him and his kids. She did make a scrapbook for his funeral, so his kids could see him smiling as he would make a cheesecake. She told his kids about their pictures on the fridge and the way Mark would brag about them when he got updates from their grandmother. She did throw punch on his wife’s white dress at the will reading.)

She was going to be a _decent person._

(Robin didn’t even know the homeless person who camped out next to the library was her soulmate until the fourth time Robin brought her a sandwich. Sam let her pay for a cab to the hospital, but wouldn’t let her in the room when they reset her arm. Two years later, Sam meets her on the steps of the library with a heavy duty backpack and coffee. Sam doesn’t give an address, but Robin and all her soulmates have Sam’s number. Sam can get anyone in or out of most clubs in the area and can also fix the wiring in run down apartments. Robin doesn’t ask. Sam meets Hughie and does a background check on him. After that, Sam takes her to get birth control and buys Hughie a book on the proper way to give head.)

She was going to make her own way.

(Two of her soulmates are rich. They are married to each other and are ready to spoil anyone who will allow them. Robin doesn’t allow them. Instead, she calls a taxi to come pick them up when the bartender has cut them off. She feeds their dog and she watches Jane Austen specials on BBC with them. She also calls their son after the third overdose. The hospital corridors are grey and she clutches a cell phone to her ear, telling their son that his parents were found in a raid the night before. He hangs up before she gives him the name of the hospital. She doesn't let Hughie come to the hospital, but Hughie is the one who cleans up her soulmates' trashed apartment and packs up Robin's stuff to go back to her aunts. )

She was going to _study._

(She holds the hand of her soulmate, who she had known from childhood, as the doctor tells them they won’t be able to walk again. They had been on the same gymnastic team. Robin might have been the one who had fallen. Her friend had a scholarship and a fiancée. The scholarship is withdrawn since her friend can no longer compete. Their fiancée’s parents refuse to allow them into their house. She holds Hughie's hand when her soulmate wheels his way up to take his Master's degree.)

She was going to keep trying.

(Her first soulmate, Benny, shows her how to do a backflip. She tries over and over again until she gets it. Benny kisses her when she does it right and they end up making out until they get caught by her aunt. Her grandmother makes her do four hundred lines. She doesn't regret it. Benny helps her put black dye in her aunt's coffee.)

She was going to make her own choices.

(Harley yells at her when she quits gymnastics. Robin stands her ground, even as they both watch green curly letters fade away. She still goes to all of Harley’s meets and is her date to prom. Eventually, the words come back, but Robin doesn’t trust them anymore.)

She wasn’t going chase money

(The second time she is in a divorce mediation, she nearly walks out when she sees how much her husband is willing to give her. The lawyers try and argue her soulmate’s husband up, but he refuses, bitter and angry. He shoots her glares across the table. His words had been on Robin until the moment he tried to pay her to ignore as his wife bleed out from her third miscarriage. It was a dinner party and Robin had worn Spanx and heels and had felt quite grown up. She wore jeans and converse to the mediation. She didn’t straighten her hair.)

She wasn’t going to take any shit.

(Two of her soulmates hit her. The first one is pummeled by Sam behind a club. Her steel toed boots leave indents on his head. She gets a bouncer to let them out the back and Robin throws up on Sam’s shoes, vomit mixing with blood. The second Robin sprays with mace. Another soulmate tried to steal her credit cards. Sam was doing a credit check on Robin and let her know. Robin doesn’t ask why Sam was running a credit check. She doesn’t want to know what Sam does.)

She was going to chose _one._

(Hughie is consistent and _good._ He smiles when he sees her, even before he says her words. She likes the way her hands fit into his hands and the way his dad will make them pizza rolls after she has her fourth orgasm. Hughie never makes her uncomfortable, never makes her worry, never makes her sit in a hospital room or courtroom. Hughie listens to bad music and had awful morning breath, but he never drinks in front of her after her first panic attack. He has his own friends and life and his own job. She knows his address and has seen pictures of his mother. He doesn’t treat Sam badly and will watch Jane Austen specials in the middle of the night.)

(Vought offers a pay off to eight of her soulmates. Seven take the money. The other chose Robin instead.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, and last of this work, is Hughie. It might take two days to get his done, I might do something small and then do a rewrite of the show instead of going in depth on Hughie.


	8. Hughie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of this work, but there will be a sequel, hopefully. The last line comes directly from the show and is the work of the creator of the show, not me. Thank you, everyone who has read and enjoyed the story this far. I have really enjoyed writing it.

Hughie would like to say that he took longer than five minutes before he started making out with his soulmate.

But that would be a lie.

Both times.

With Robin, at least, Hughie had meant to kiss her cheek. A little peck. A really, really, common greeting when you meet someone you’ve spent your entire life waiting to meet. Also, she was very pretty and she didn’t seem disappointed to meet him. That was oddly comforting. No one actually _believes_ their soulmate will hate them upon first meeting, but it was slightly worrying to Hughie.

It was almost storybook like, the way she tilted her head at the last second. Her lips were soft and slightly sticky from her lip gloss and _Oh My God_ she was warm and very very soft. She tasted like strawberries and tacos and Hughie didn’t know how the fuck those two tastes went together, _but they did._

She also seemed to like kissing Hughie, because she dragged him over to a closet where she climbed on top of him, cradling his head and running her fingers through his hair. They continued to make out for the next hour, until Hughie’s dad came looking for him. Hughie tried to be dignified, but he fell off of the stack of paper towels he was sitting and hit his head pretty badly. Robin held her sweatshirt to his head while his dad tried to decide between laughing and worrying.

When they were caught, Hughie was gathering up his dignity to ask her for her number After his injury, his dad invited her over to the apartment for pizza rolls.

_And she said yes._

Hughie wasn’t quite sure how he made it through the entire encounter without internally combusting, but it was a damn miracle. Robin didn’t hesitate to go with him, which was concerning, but she did text someone to know where she was going so Hughie was vaguely comforted to know she wasn’t going to be carted off by a man who told her he had candy in his windowless van. She ate pizza rolls, talked to him about superheroes and made fun of his Billy Joel posters.

She was perfect.

She also messed up half her references and had a shitload of soulmates, but Hughie didn’t really see that as a drawback. It meant Robin had a lot of love to give. Hughie ignored the part of him that whispered that she wouldn’t be able to disappear.

She was going to school, which was cool. Hughie was a self-taught techie. He wasn’t particularly caught up on the philosophical differences between existentialism and nihilism and she wasn’t quite sure about the difference between dial-up and fiber optic internet hook up. It didn’t matter though, because they let each other talk for _hours._

They also made-out for hours. It was very nice.

They didn’t actually sleep together till he met all of her soulmates. He liked a few of them. Some of them were a little weird. Two of them were headstone, with dates on them that put Robin’s age in perspective.

He was only really concerned about a few of them. One of them, Benny, likes making dirty jokes during get togethers. Robin, bless her heart, doesn’t seem to understand- or is pretending not to. Hughie spends most of his time around him blushing. Another one likes threatening Hughie when Robin’s back is turned. One of them might be a drug dealer. Several of them _do not like Hughie._ He can understand why. He is one of the last soulmates Robin found and he was instantly given top priority. He doesn’t know why and he can’t quite build up his courage to ask Robin.

Robin seems to have pretty firm boundaries, though. Hughie can’t interfere with her other soulmates. He doesn’t get to give her advice. They split the check when they eat out and Hughie can’t help with the dishes at her grandmothers. She has boundaries with everyone else, too. Some of the boundaries are pretty weird, some are invisible, some will have her get up and leave in the middle of a conversation. Hughie isn’t quite sure what boundaries she has with the electrician (whom, he is pretty sure. is homeless), but he is equally sure he doesn’t want to know. The fourth time he meets the electrician, she pairs his phone with her phone, hands him a taser, lectures him on staying mum if a man with specific tattoos comes by, and then talks to him about electrical wiring for an hour and a half.

Hughie took a nap after that conversation. He woke up to find the electrician, Robin, and his dad watching Remington Steele in the living room eating pizza. Hughie asks Robin about it later. She gave him a hug and told him “She likes you.”

Hughie was pretty sure that was more of a threat than a compliment. His dad doesn’t seem to have a problem with her, though. She comes over and talks to the landlord about problems in the building sometimes. She has also done a credit check on both of them.

Hughie doesn’t spend time thinking about that.

Hughie does think about Robin quite a bit. Hughie thinks about her hair and her mouth and her laugh and the way she talks him into doing fun things. He thinks about how she will giggle if he presses his hand to lightly on her side and the way her legs clench around his waist right before climax. He thinks about the way she curls into him and the way she likes to sleep directly on top of him.

Hughie thinks about the fact he is in love. He watches her and thinks to himself-

_“She is never going to leave me.”_

And she doesn’t, at least not willingly.

\----

He doesn’t think with his second soulmate. He talks to Billy for about five minutes before he drags him to the alley behind the store and climbs him like a tree. He isn’t quite sure how he knows, but he knows Billy won’t blame him and won’t expect it to mean anything. Hughie just _needs_ and Billy seems willing to provide.

Billy is different than Robin. His mouth is dry and his lips cracked. He tastes like beer and toothpaste. Unlike Robin, he doesn’t take charge. He just grabs the back of Hughie’s neck and lets Hughie take the lead. His beard isn’t soft, but it isn’t as scratchy as Hughie was expecting either. He smells like engine oil.

Billy radiates warmth, where Robin used to be slightly cool. His hands have strange callouses, that make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. His clothing isn’t soft like Robin’s clothes were soft. Everything about Billy is sturdy and real and _there._ He doesn’t flinch when Hughie digs his fingers into his sides, doesn’t push him away when Hughie presses him against the brick wall. Billy isn’t a body builder, but Hughie is very aware that Billy is built out of some serious muscle and while Billy lets Hughie take the lead, his muscles will sometimes tremor and seize before relaxing again. He doesn’t compare to Robin, but Robin’s ghost can’t touch him or hold him and he needs someone who will touch him outside of a pat on the shoulder. He needs someone who will treat him like he is something _there_ and sturdy, not about to break _._

And when they stop and Hughie presses his forehead to Billy’s shoulder, Billy’s other arm wraps around his waist and holds him close. The hand that was on his neck moves up to his hair and combs it back, nails scrapping Hughie’s scalp. It feels nice. Robin liked running her fingers through his hair, too. The gesture is familiar enough to be comforting, but different enough not to cause Hughie to panic.

It doesn’t make anything better. In fact it makes things worse, because Hughie just used one of his soulmates to forget about another soulmate. He swallows, throat suddenly tight and his eyes sting, before he pulls back. Billy doesn’t move, just lets him go. Billy’s eyes watch him and Hughie can’t quite figure out all the emotions in there, but he sees a bit of compassion, Which makes him want to break down all over again.

“Uh, sorry. I shouldn’t have-“

“It wasn’t my first time in a back alley, won’t be the last.” Billy says, and Hughie can see Billy make the shift back to business. Hughie, for the first time in his life, appreciates why people are casual with their soulmates.

_“Yeah,” Hughie says. “You came into the store for something?”_

_“I’m not going to piss you about, Hughie. I heard what happened to Robin.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC


End file.
